


After The End

by the_gabih



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Marriage Proposal, The Great Fodlan Bakeoff, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_gabih/pseuds/the_gabih
Summary: Ingrid finds Dorothea's hideaway, and some unexpected truths.Written for the Great Fodlan Bakeoff challenge.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	After The End

After everything, Ingrid finds her outside the opera house. Amid the ruins of Enbarr, the building still stands, graceful marble pillars scorched and speckled with blood, but still strong. 

Dorothea, for all that her back is resolutely straight, seems decidedly less so. As Ingrid approaches, it becomes easier to see the tight clench of her fists, the minute tremors in her muscles, the carefully blank expression she calls upon when she's about to break. Ingrid doesn't touch her. She doesn't even speak, just stands beside her, looking up at the mosaic on the triangular front part of the roof.

The gold tiles glitter faintly in the twilight, the glow of the rising sun they depict lost in the gathering gloom. The woman standing in front of it is the picture of warmth and serenity, loosely holding a red rose made all the more vivid by her white dress as she looks out over the shattered square. Ingrid wonders dimly why this building, specifically, had got away so lightly, as a distraction against the worry that threatens to spiral out of her hands at the sight of Dorothea's own distress.

A low crash in the background breaks the silence. Dorothea flinches, turning to see what it was before suddenly breaking and running up the stairs to the theatre. Ingrid is torn- she really ought to go and help with whatever that was, though she can't see it from here- but when she goes to move, her feet carry her inside, after Dorothea.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The opera house is vast, with no light other than that from the open doors. But she's quick enough to catch the flash of a skirt disappearing through a doorway, and runs after it without thinking. Dorothea's figure flits away, up a flight of stairs running behind the stage, through a warren of props and backgrounds and costumes thick with dust. How she manages to get through it without falling is a miracle; even a moment's delay, and she'd lose sight of her quarry.

It's on the third flight of steps that her exhaustion begins to catch up with her. Years on the back of a pegasus have given her thighs capable of withstanding almost anything, but they've been fighting so hard and for so long that now even they begin to tremble. It's only the footsteps up ahead that keep her going, and she pushes past the deep seated ache to take the stairs two at a time, round and round until she's almost dizzy.

And then, suddenly, they stop. The open door ahead of her shows a view of the rooftop, of the setting sun, and of Dorothea, gasping for breath as she slides down the tiles to the floor. Ingrid stops in the doorway, feeling suddenly like an intruder. She's not even sure if Dorothea has noticed her yet. She could still take the steps down, and leave her to her private grief. To see the city you most loved reduced to this- Ingrid has seen the occupation of Fhirdiad, and she can still hardly imagine it.

But she is here, now. The path they had taken to get here had been long and winding, and she does not trust herself to retrace it in the dark. And Dorothea looks so alone there. 

She steels herself, and steps out onto the roof. Dorothea doesn't react when she crouches down next to her, save for drawing her arms tightly around her knees. Her breaths come in loud, hitching gasps, and Ingrid wishes she could offer anything beyond her presence. Sylvain would know what to say, most likely. But words have never been Ingrid's strong suit. She rests her arse on the cooling tiles of the roof, and looks around for something else to offer- over there, a candle, half burnt in the midst of a pile of wax from what must have been its predecessors. She leans over, brushing aside the feathers and leaves that have gathered in its little corner to set a small flame.

The light it gives off is weak, flickering, but nevertheless Dorothea fixes on it. Her breaths begin to slow, sounding less and less like sobs as the space around them takes on some colour again. Ingrid sits beside her, almost close enough to touch, hyperaware of just how filthy and blood-stained her armour is, and of how much she wants to reach across anyway and wrap an arm around Dorothea's shoulders.

"I always used to come here," Dorothea says eventually. "Whenever I was scared, or felt lonely. I suppose it's a bit of a paradox, coming to be alone because I felt friendless, but there you have it."

Ingrid shakes her head slowly. "No. No, I understand." Loneliness as a choice, rather than the absence of any kind of warmth among other people. She's been there. "It's a nice place."

"I thought so." Dorothea eases herself back slowly. "Especially at sunset. Or on a festival night, where you could look down and see the lights and the fires of the city. I used to watch all the families in the streets. All the pretty girls dancing. I was so jealous. I wanted that freedom, to be able to run and play and enjoy myself, rather than having to work for everything I had."

Ingrid nods. "Yeah." She's been there, too. Being friends with the prince and the sons of the most favoured estates in Gautier had been an honor and a blessing, but the constant reminders of their wealth had bitten hard at times. Like a wall, nail-studded, that she would forever bloody her hands climbing while they stood at the top. Dorothea offers her a small smile.

"And then sometimes, it was nice just to come up here and have somewhere that was mine. I mean, I'm sure other people knew about it too. But I never found anyone else up here. I let myself think it was a secret, that one day I'd be able to bring someone I loved up here and reveal it to them."

"I'm sorry," Ingrid says quietly. "I suppose I'm not exactly husband material. But I think it's lovely."

"Well, of course you're not husband material. You'd be my wife, if we did marry," Dorothea points out. The thought brings a flush to Ingrid's cheeks.

"Yes, well. Assuming you wanted to."

Dorothea arches an elegant brow. "Assuming I wanted to?"

"Well...yes?" Ingrid says, frowning faintly. "I mean, it would need to be both of us who wanted it, wouldn't it?"

"So you do, then?"

Ingrid's flush deepens. Fuck. "I..."

"You...?" Dorothea looks almost eager. Ingrid draws back a little, instinctively.

"I have nothing to offer you," she says simply. "You know how poor my family is. Marrying me would be... I mean, if you wanted security- and I know how much you do- it would be exactly the wrong way to go about it."

"I know," Dorothea admits. "I've seen how much you struggle. How you keep even the tiniest scraps to make them into something useful. And I..." she draws her knees to her chest. Ingrid watches the way the wind draws her hair in loose clumps over her face. The sky behind it is darkening still, such that each strand is barely visible. "It scares me, if I'm honest. A life where we never rest easy. Where everything's always a battle."

Ingrid's heart sinks down slowly, dragging through her chest and stomach to sit somewhere around her pelvis. "Yeah. I'll bet."

They sit in silence for a moment. A long moment. The heat of the day has given way to an evening chill that sinks through Ingrid's sweat-soaked armour and into her skin. She's about to get up when Dorothea turns back. "I want it, though."

Ingrid blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"I want it. I know- I mean, if you don't want me, I understand. I don't exactly have much to offer either. But I've been... there's been a lot of time to think, lately. On the road. About the life I pictured for myself, and the one I actually want. And being with you, with everyone, I don't know. It made me want that... that freedom. I never felt like I had to pretend to be someone different, with you. The only times I put on a show were the times I was actually, you know, putting on a show."

She pauses then. Ingrid's not sure what she's supposed to say to that. "It was a really good show," she offers, and Dorothea's soft laugh echoes through the space.

"It was, wasn't it? I know you didn't like being on stage, but being there with you? I felt like I could do anything. Anything in the world." She leans in closer then, enough for Ingrid to feel the press of Dorothea's prized feather stole against her arm. "I don't want to lose that. I don't want to spend the rest of my life living in a luxurious little cage. I'd much rather be by your side, doing... well, I can't say I know what kind of work it takes to maintain a noble house. But I'd be happy- no, I'd be delighted if I could do it with you."

Ingrid stares at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the 'but'. In all the years she's known Dorothea, this has always been her goal: to find a wealthy noble and flirt or bully her way into their heart. She can't say she blames her for it. If anything, she wishes she had the same passion to make a good match. Her family is counting on her. Her whole House and all its people are counting on her.

And yet. And yet, when she dreams, it's of soft skin and plush lips, not hard muscle. It's of long hair haloing out over the bed, the arch of a graceful back, slender fingers exploring every inch of her with a tenderness she's never been able to show anyone, certainly not herself.

"I don't..." she stammers, and for a heartbeat she sees Dorothea's face shutter, ready to compose itself into a form suitable for joking and brushing off heartache. "Why? Why would you want me?"

Dorothea's eyes widen, then soften. "Why? Why in the world wouldn't I? You're brave, kind- every bit the knight in one of those stories of yours. And you care. Not just about the people you're expected to, but everyone. You have so little, and yet you give so much." She reaches out a hand, slowly, tentatively, though with all the warning Ingrid still startles a bit when Dorothea tucks a strand of her hair back behind her ear. "Also, you're by far the prettiest girl in Thedas. And I've seen a lot of pretty girls, so I would know."

Ingrid finds a smile beginning to spread over her face. "Not including you. Not by a long shot."

Dorothea laughs again, louder this time. "Well, I'll allow you to be wrong this once. I suppose we all must have our flaws, mustn't we?"

"Mm." Ingrid looks down, and finds Dorothea's hand flattened on the stone between them. She reaches down to trace over it, and Dorothea quickly lifts it to settle in her palm. It fits there like it was made for her hand. "I meant what I said, earlier. I don't have much to give. Life in Galatea is... well, it's hard. Hot in the summer, freezing in winter. We don't have many comforts. But if you'll have me, I promise, you'll have the best of what I have to give."

When she looks up, Dorothea's smile is bright enough to outshine any lantern, any fire. "I couldn't ask for more," she breathes, and she's close enough now that Ingrid feels the words in the current of air against her face as much as she hears them. "Just you."

"You have me," Ingrid tells her. Her mind is racing, trying to remember the promises of noble knights to their ladies- but she has the wedding for that, she supposes.

The wedding. Seiros. They're going to get married. This is _forever_. Her heart loses the leaden weight from before and becomes suddenly buoyant, leaving her giddy in the wake of its rise. It's dark enough now that she can barely see Dorothea, but she knows her face. She doesn't need sight to lean in and press her mouth to hers, nor to hear the soft gasp and eager press forward that result. There's a part of her mind even now that's blazing away, trying to work out how to get a ring, where she'll get it from, how much she can afford- but she pushes through it, drowning it out with the soft warmth of Dorothea's mouth and the feeling of her gentle hand settling at the small of Ingrid's back.

When they pull away, it is full dark, barring the candle in their little hideaway. Dorothea sighs and leans in to rest her forehead against Ingrid's. "If only we could stay here forever."

Ingrid hums agreement. She knows, of course she does, that they're needed back on the ground. That the end of the war only means the beginning of everything else- of reconstruction, of negotiations, of rebuilding a whole war-torn continent from the ground up. But the mountain they still have to climb looks a little less steep with Dorothea's hand in hers. And surely, surely they've earned a moment of rest first?

"A little longer," Ingrid murmurs eventually. "The others can wait a while."

There's a spark of mischief in Dorothea's eyes before she closes them, resting her head against Ingrid's shoulder and tugging her stole around them both. "They can," she nods, burrowing her face against Ingrid's skin and breathing softly against her neck in a way that sends a flush to her cheeks. It feels good, though. Warmth against the cold night air. No doubt there'll be complaints later- her back is already protesting the angle- but right here, right now, this is perfect.


End file.
